For all the math competitions I took part in during high school and all the math awards I won, there is one mathematical tidbit I must claim ignorance on. I do not know what the last number is. I’m sure it is infinitely more than my feeble mind can comprehend. But according to my son, that’s how much he loves me. More than a hundred, more than a million, more than a zillion. He claims he loves me all the way to the last number.

I don’t know what the last number is, but now I know that it is an incredible sum to be treasured forever. Who else but a child can bestow such incalculable love?

This week Maia added a new favorite to her repertoire of summer camp experiences. Rock climbing. I did not know such a summer camp existed, but it turns out that we have an indoor rock climbing facility practically in our own back yard, and they do, indeed, host weekly camps. But there was a hitch. In order for children to participate, parents must sign a release form acknowledging that the equipment could fail and your child could, you know, die.

I have read and signed my share of waivers in my time on this planet, but until now, I have never been scared into having second thoughts. This one, however, made me wonder if I was sending my child to certain injury or death. So I asked about the safety record of the facility and, satisfied with the response, took a deep breath and initialed next to each and every possible dire consequence and every imaginable disclaimer of liability.

My friend and her daughter were there at drop-off on Monday morning, too, and together we also inquired about helmets. Turns out they are only provided upon request. We did not request; we insisted.

Because of our carpool arrangement, my friend picked the girls up on Monday afternoon only to discover that ours were the only two kids wearing helmets. One of the counselors pulled her aside and discreetly showed her how the helmets were really more of a hindrance than a help. Still, Maia and her friend gamely wore the helmets and when asked about them by the other kids, they knowingly explained, “overprotective mothers.”

Oh man oh man, when did I turn into one of THOSE mothers? And where did my daughter gain the confidence to take it all in stride, rather than sink into the ground in embarrassment as I would have done at her age?

My friend and I deliberated briefly and decided to rescind the helmet mandate. The girls completed the rest of the week helmet free, and you know what? Nobody died. But still, my observant readers will notice that I waited until the end of the week to blog only in hindsight about being a silly overprotective mother. That was intentional.

Just in case.

20 years is a long time to lay claim to a label, especially one that describes who you were far more accurately than who you’ve become.

In my case it is a label that was correctly bestowed on me during my senior year of high school, when I was voted “Most Shy.” Back then, that’s exactly what I was. Anyone who remembers me at all from my school years remembers me as quiet, sweet, nice. My yearbooks are littered with these words from my classmates. Perhaps the sentiments were sincere (I would, after all, like to believe that I am nice), but I’ve always secretly suspected they were code for “I don’t really know you well enough to write anything else.” Yet it was almost certainly my own social fright that stood in the way of making deeper connections and lasting memories with the very people I had grown up with.

20 years can change a lot about a person, however, and while I will always be an introvert at heart, people who know me now are frequently shocked to learn that I was ever considered shy. Last weekend at my 20-year reunion I finally had the opportunity to demonstrate that to my former classmates. While it probably wasn’t enough time to change my shy image, it felt good to be free of the awkwardness that used to plague me.

I’m glad I attended the reunion. There were many people I was delighted to see—some of whom I wish I could have spent more time catching up with, and others whom I quite possibly spoke to for the very first time, ever. Even though we may have had little in common back then, there is that shared connection of having grown up in the same place and attended the same schools and known the same people that bonds us all together permanently. And that, dear readers, is kind of cool. Even, maybe especially, for the shy girl.

Exactly one year ago, in recognition of my 13th wedding anniversary,  I wrote about our fairy tale wedding. That has since become the single most popular post on this blog, bringing nearly half of all traffic that lands here from Google and other search engines. Mostly the visits are from people who want to know whether rainy wedding days bring good luck. To those people I offer these words of wisdom: embrace the rain and make beautiful memories from it. But don’t depend on the weather to predict wedded bliss. The success of your union requires commitment, not precipitation.

It’s now been 14 wonderful years for us. Rain or shine, I would not trade them for anything! I have only to glance at other people’s relationships to know just how blessed I am. Happy Anniversary, Kent. I love you.

We’re on vacation in North Carolina high country this week, and I think I’m never going home. Here’s why.

The front porch of our secluded mountain cabin:

The rear of our mountain cabin:

The view from the back deck:

Our days so far have been filled with leisurely taking in the scenery and attractions of the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains, breathing the fresh mountain air as we relax in rockers on the front porch with good books and tall glasses of sweet, cold lemonade, and enjoying evening soaks in the hot tub on the back deck, surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature.

This is a restorative vacation that is truly good for the soul. I want more!

It was such an innocent looking box, sitting conspicuously in my office chair. But when I returned from a meeting yesterday to find the small cardboard carton that said “Wiley” on every surface, I knew exactly what it meant. My author’s copies had arrived! I wasted not an instant tearing into the package, and my glorious reward was two beautiful, perfect specimens of “my” book:

Best of The eLearning Guild’s Learning Solutions: Top Articles from the eMagazine’s First Five Years

My chapter begins on page 83.

Upon receiving these coveted treasures and showing them off to everyone in the vicinity, I emailed the editor to let him know how great the final product looks. He responded that “there are few things in life more pleasing than getting your author copies from the publisher.” Pleasing? I think that wins the award for understatement of the year!

So if anyone needs me in the near future, try looking on cloud number nine. Because I think it will be some time before I am properly earthbound again.

That’s what Noah asked me for in the store today. What he meant was 11 dollars and 99 cents, but who’s quibbling with adorableness? He wanted to know if I had 11 dollars and 99 dollars to buy a specific toy that he’s had his eye on in the past. Sadly, I had to say no to the charmingly phrased request, because the Easter Bunny has already acquired said toy to be delivered in Noah’s Easter basket on Sunday morning.

It broke my heart to see his sweet eyes start to fill with tears. But on the plus side, score one for the Easter Bunny who knows one little boy’s heart’s desire. The Easter Bunny rocks!

This past weekend I traveled to Minneapolis on a business trip, and as I was waiting for my suitcase at baggage claim in zombie-like inertia, I saw something making its way around the carousel that tickled me. A suitcase that was clearly not mine.

How do I know this otherwise interchangeable black specimen of luggage did not belong to me? The true owner had thoughtfully applied this message in permanent marker, written on duct tape, securely fastened to each side of the bag:

“NOT YOURS.”

Thanks to the anonymous owner of that suitcase for preventing me from accidentally picking up the wrong bag, and for giving me a smile in the process.

The two readers I have left may recall this post from several months ago about admissions at my alma mater. It made an impact on the right people, and now a shorter version appears as a Letter to the Editor in our alumni magazine.  Complete with a response from the dean of undergraduate admissions! It’s hot off the press; I just got my copy today.

I’m no activitist and have no desire to be one, but I’m kind of proud to have made my small voice heard. Even if no one else agrees.

If  you have an unexplained desire to read the letter and the response, it’s your lucky day. I’ve scanned the page and you can view it right here. Enjoy! (Or not.)

It’s not often that you find yourself discussing the tea drinking habits of royalty, especially during a romantic Valentine’s Day lunch with your sweetie.

Then again, it’s not many sweeties who think to set their watch to the Queen’s tea time.

But every day at precisely 12:20 PM, the alarm on Kent’s new watch goes off. And every time I’m around to hear it, he gives me the same line.

“The Queen is having her tea now.”

I have no idea if he has really taken the trouble to:

• Discover the precise time the Queen takes her tea,
• Calculate the time difference from London, and
• Learn how to set the alarm on his watch for the proper alert.

But he persists in claiming the alarm means the Queen is taking her tea, so I’ll go with it. If only because it makes for highly entertaining conversation.

And because he’s my sweetie, so I naturally adore his creative thinking.